


A TARDIS and her Doctor

by zinjadu



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Time War, the Doctor's all emo.  TARDIS does not approve.  Written a while ago, rehosting here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A TARDIS and her Doctor

The world is on fire, there is no where to turn. So he leaves, running as far and as fast as he can and she watches him. She watches him change from the sweet faced, dark haired man into a sharp featured, blue eyed walking wound. He dresses himself in clothing that is simple and sparse. He keeps his hair shorn. She watches as he wanders her halls, as he cries out to people no longer there, people who were never there and only live on in his own mind. She watches as he collapses from the inside out, nothing left to support him.

She watches as her Doctor dies.

This time, she is not content to watch, to hold back and wait for him to be better. There is no one else to nurse him back to health. No one except herself.

She projects an image for him as he lies on a floor, giving up for the time being, not caring where he finds himself. She is small and blonde, knowing his preference for physical type, with eyes as blue as her disguise. She lifts him, gentle and sure, as she compensates for having to work in a more physical realm. He is barely coherent as she moves him down the hall and to his room. Setting him down requires equal care, and he nearly surfaces from whatever depths he keeps himself as he is jostled, but he stays underneath. She does not remove his boots or his jacket; it is too early for that. Instead she sits with him, a sort of physical presence, until he wakes and she leaves.

He makes her repeat her performance many times, until he realizes that someone is moving him after he collapses. Her poor Doctor, his mind so tired from the fight and the war, without his usual energy and brilliance.

“Alright, who’s there?” he demands, wary like a dog just freed from abuse. When no one answers him—because she thinks it would be silly to answer, she’s always here—he shouts, “Show yourself! I’m not in the mood for games.” His voice takes on a dangerous edge she has never heard in her Doctor. It worries her, so she decides that it would ease his mind to see his caretaker.

The act of projection is easy now, and she appears directly in front of him, a small smile on her face. She is surprised to see a look of naked longing on his own face. Has he really thought himself so alone?

“Who are you?” he chokes out, not wanting to believe what he knows to be fact.

“I am TARDIS, my Doctor, you know this.” She keeps her voice calm and sweet, a parent calming a child.

“You’ve been taking care of me?”

“I have always taken care of you, my Doctor, but this instance required a more direct approach. You have stopped caring for your own needs.”

His face darkens, like the sky of his world before it died. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”

The statement makes her angry. How dare he? How dare he?! She rounds on him, forcing him to look at this projection that is her. “It matters to me, my Doctor. I will not let you kill yourself.”

Her words strike him as if they were physical blows. He staggers, backing away from her. She does not know whether or not to reach out to him, this Doctor is harsher than any of the others, but he makes the choice easy when he reaches out for her hand.

“Didn’t know you could make a projection this good,” he comments quietly. He stares at their clasped hands; the warm weight of her hand in his own is a balm, temporary but soothing.

“It has been a learning process,” she tells him without hesitation. “The first attempt was less solid, less able to interact. I have this mostly figured out now.” She smiles up at him, and finds herself happy to be able to interact with her Doctor in this way.

He returns her smile, but it is gone in a moment. “I’m sorry,” he says, head down, not looking at her anymore.

“For what?”

“You’re the last of your kind…”

“I left my kind long ago, my Doctor. It was my choice, and I made it. I would not leave you, nor would I have you leave me.” This is fact, this is truth, and she does not dance around any of the emotional awkwardness that some are prone to, especially when they have not had centuries to understand their own feelings. He stays silent, and she lets the moment stretch and bend, wrapping around them both. When she feels that it has gone for long enough, she breaks it and says, “You need rest. Come.”

She leads him to his room, keeping a firm hold of his hand as he would for any of his companions. She sits him down on his bed, and he does not protest, he does not resist, he lets her move him as she will. First she removes his boots, unhurried and carefully unlacing them. Then his jacket slides off. She removes it, hanging it over the back of a chair. She returns to his side, taking his head in her hands she presses her lips to his forehead as she has seen done by others, a gesture of absolution and love, two things her Doctor desperately needs.

He reaches for her again, taking hold of her wrists and meets her eyes. His eyes, filled with pain and guilt and fear to the point of spilling over; she lets him look into her, the calm blue of her eyes, her gaze that holds the time vortex that is her heart: the past, present and future that she can see and know—its majesty and wonder—and he lets go, just a fraction, but he lets go.

He draws her to him, kissing hungrily, and if she had to breathe he would have taken the breath from her. She presses close, giving him the contact he craves. His hands run down her back, unhooking the clasps to her garments, and she decides to not have her clothes vanish in an instant. It would not fit this moment. With a soft rustle, her clothing pools on the floor and she climbs onto his lap, pushing him backwards and down, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder in a golden wave that nature could not produce.

She also finds his fully clothed state entirely unfair. Her hands seek the hem of his jumper, sliding it up over his chest as she runs her hands along his torso, feeling the leanness of him, the knowledge that her Doctor will always be hungry from now on. Her poor eternally starving Doctor. He assists her in his jumper’s removal, tugging it off eagerly. She explores, pressing her lips down his jaw and neck, finding his collar bone and the hollow of his throat, further down his chest and stomach. She finds his belly button amusing, especially when further study yields the fact that her Doctor does indeed have a ticklish spot, and that she is the only creature in existence that knows of it.

He tries to tug her back up to him, to kiss her again, but now that she is down this far, she might as well remove the last bits of offending clothing. Deftly, she removes his pants and boxers before allowing herself to be drawn back upwards. His hands move, trying to touch all of her at once, but one finds its way into her hair while the other cups her breast, thumb circling her nipple. She rocks forward, an involuntary reaction, and she decides that this projection is indeed a marked improvement.

She moves as best as she can while still kissing her Doctor, for he is greedy and does not wish to relinquish any part of her, and straddles him. She can feel his erection against her, and the groan deep in his chest and she wiggles into a more comfortable position. Reaching down with her free hand, she holds him and guides him into her as she moves her hips down, taking him in. The kiss breaks as they both moan. He holds her close, making meaningless animal sounds into her hair. Her projection gasps and strains for breath she does not need.

Together they rock, her hips move in a slow, steady rhythm and she looses track of all else. Her Doctor kisses her again, her Doctor is massaging her breasts, her Doctor is rocking against her, her Doctor lies back with his hands clutching her hips and buttocks desperate not to let go. She speeds up—sitting up, her back arching—she grinds against him. Little sounds that she didn’t know she could make escape her. She can feel his body responding to her body responding to his body and on and on in an endless cycle of response, until one twitch, one gasp and he shudders, spent. She follows not long after, as he watches her drowsily: a cat in a sunspot.

Lying out on top of him, it does not take long for him to return to a less euphoric state. He moves out from under her, but she does not fear that he will spurn her. He is her Doctor, after all, and it is only as expected when he tugs the covers up around them both. Neither of them need to sleep, though both need a rest of sorts, so they will take their rest together, clinging in the darkness that her Doctor has designated as night. There are no soft words or gentle caresses or afterglow, there merely is what is. The night is long, but they do not speak, but take comfort in the presence of the other.

Tomorrow she will take him somewhere far away, long ago or far in the future. It matters not. What matters is that he is still her Doctor and she is still his TARDIS.


End file.
